Fearscape (Horrorscape) Page 3

  “Blood washes off.” He smoothed the bandage over her skin. “You look familiar.”

  “I do?”

  “Your hair is very distinctive.”

  She clutched one of the offending copper locks. “Who are you?”

  He held his finger to his lips. “You'll figure it out.”

  The doors opened and they both turned as Lisa's head bobbed into appearance. She was wielding a large sugary confection that resembled a milkshake more than a coffee. With the hand the boy wasn't still holding onto, Val waved.

  Lisa's head pivoted, and her eyes narrowed. “What happened to you?” she demanded, her tone harsh.

  “I got mauled by a kitten.”

  “They have kittens?” Her expression thawed a little when she glanced at the pen. “Oh my God. What breed are they?”

  “Toygers,” the boy said. To Val, he said, “I'm done.”

  Lisa gave Val a sharp look. She turned to the boy and when she spoke, the object of her sudden ire was immediately clear. “What the hell is a toyger?”

  “A cat bred to look like a tiger.”

  “Thanks for clearing that up. Is the sarcasm extra?”

  “Stating the obvious can be very trying,” the boy replied.

  “Excuse me?” Lisa's voice took on a dangerous quality.

  “You heard me.”

  “I should report you to your supervisor. Is this how you treat all your customers?”

  Val felt unease nip at her stomach. “Lisa ….” Lisa waved her off. The boy merely laughed.

  “Oh, you think that's funny? Why don't you go write another hate list?”

  His laughter subsided into a quiet, “Perhaps I will.”

  “Let me guess. I'll at the top.”

  “You would be … but from what I hear, you prefer to be on the bottom.”

  Lisa flinched as if he'd slapped her. “Fuck you.”

  He raised an eyebrow at Val as if to say See?

  Val tried again, “Lisa …”

  Lisa wasn't having it. “Fuck off. I'm not going to argue — I'm not going to argue semantics with assholes. Come on, Val, we're leaving.”

  “But — ”

  Lisa had a good hold on her wrist and dragged her away before Val could even finish her protest. Val glanced back, to see the boy still watching her, lowering his hand from his face. The hand he'd used to bandage her wrist. Was he …? No. That was insane. There was no way he'd licked her blood from his hand. She was crazy for even thinking it.

  Wasn't she?

  Stupid. People don't drink blood.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Lisa said, barely waiting until they were outside the automatic doors. “I leave you alone for fifteen minutes and you immediately decide to embark on an expedition of social suicide?”

  Val yanked her wrist out of Lisa's grip. She felt a little dizzy. Something to chalk up to the blood loss, maybe. She rubbed at her hand and said, “What are you snapping about?”

  “I'm snapping about you and Gavin Mecozzi.”

  “Who's that?”

  “Who else?”

  “Him?” She tilted her head towards Petville.

  “The one who practically just called me a slut to my face? The one you were getting all chummy with? Yeah, that's the one. Good job, Val. Gold star. You win the multiple choice.”

  “We were not getting chummy! Why are you mad at me? I didn't know. I've never even heard of him.”

  “Well, obviously.” Lisa rolled her eyes, but to Val's relief, her anger was beginning to dissipate. “People only tell you nice things. There's nothing nice to say about Gavin. He's a freak. He's weird, and his family is crazy. End of story.”

  Val was silent.

  Lisa sighed. “Look. I know how you get around sad saps, but he's no socially awkward loser. There's a reason he's not popular and it isn't because he's not attractive, or nonathletic. He scares people.”

  “He doesn't scare me.” But even as she said it, Val knew it was a lie.

  “He should,” Lisa said bluntly. “And if he doesn't — well, there's something wrong with you.”

  Chapter Three

  Gavin Mecozzi.

  About 1,001 results (0.14 seconds).

  Conflicting emotions welled up inside Val as she stared at the Google page. Curiosity warred with the niggling suspicion that she should probably leave well enough alone. This didn't make her a creeper, did it? She was pretty sure it did.

  Lisa had a lot of nerve telling her who to stay away from, especially after that lecture about how she was “too good.” Hadn't the implication been that she needed a bad influence?

  Val eyed the page again. 1,001 results was a lot. She wasn't sure how she was going to get through all of them, or even half of them. Was this really what stalkers did in their free time? They must have a lot of free time.

  “Val, I'm dropping you off at school in forty minutes. Will you be ready?”

  “Yes, Mom!”

  She heard her mother utter something sarcastic as she walked away. Something about ingratitude.

  Could people find out if you had been Google-searching them? She would absolutely die if Gavin found out she had been stalking him. Or if Lisa found out.

  No, wait, she didn't care about that. Screw Lisa.

  Since Val was not about to go through 1,001 web pages, she repeated the search by putting his name into quotes this time. The results narrowed down to a doable 230 — and she knew some of those highlighted names had to be her Gavin, because they were clearly local. Petville's website turned up, as did that of DHS, something called FIDE, and a genealogy site.

  She was definitely checking the latter out, but what on earth was FIDE? A company? She opened another tab and started a third search. Fédération Internationale des Échecs.

  The World Chess Federation.

  She scanned the page and learned from the site's succinct summary that the group had been founded in Paris, and the catchy acronym of the French name had stuck). Gavin, when she searched for him, was listed as holding the title of “master” with a ranking of 2300.

  His opponents said of him, “he weaves his traps as neatly and intricately as a spider spins its web — beautifully done, and just as lethal,” “a brutal force of nature, terrible, wondrous, and completely unstoppable,” and “truly, his games made for some of the most memorable in my experience.”

  Gavin seemed to have given that up, though, because he was listed as inactive. Val wondered why he'd quit. She looked up his rating because “master” sounded impressive and the only comparison she could come up with were the numerical rankings of SAT scores. She was amazed to see that his rating grouped him with some of the best players in the entire world.

  That stunned her into thoughtful contemplation for several seconds.

  Val couldn't imagine what it would be like to be that good at something, let alone something as intellectual and sophisticated and exotic as chess. Her father played, but he wasn't very good. He'd tried to teach her a handful of times when she was young, but Val had been dismissive of the dull-colored pieces with their stunning lack of decoration and had only wanted to play Candy Land.

  I wonder if I'd be a master right now if I had let Dad teach me.

  Val closed the FIDE tab and opened up the genealogy website. Anna Mecozzi was the first name that leaped out at her, with lines trailing from her name like spider silk. Val's eyes followed the lines, which widened with comprehension as she reached their end.

  She was Gavin's mother.

  Gavin's name was the first name listed, but his father's was conspicuously absent. Did that meant he didn't know who his father was? Maybe he was adopted. That wasn't so depressing.

  But they do something special to the lines when you're adopted, I can't remember what ….

  Val stared at the chart. God, he had a lot of siblings. Anna-Maria, Luca, Leona, Nicola, Dorian, Adelaide, Celesta. She wondered if he was Catholic. Italians were Catholic, weren't they? Was he Italian? His name certainly was, a
nd he had the same dark, brooding looks of the Italian actors popularized in films.

  As she read more, she learned that he was, indeed, Italian. He was the first and only child his mother had given birth to on her native Lombardian soil before immigrating and then living as an expatriate on the Eastern seaboard.

  Anna Mecozzi was an ex-thespian and appeared to collect men the way other women collected stamps or coins. Val experienced quite a shock when she glimpsed a picture. The woman was gorgeous — blonde and petite, with high cheekbones and surprisingly thin lips. She looked nothing like her tall, swarthy son.

  Except for her eyes. They had the same cold, colorless eyes.

  Val closed the genealogy site and clicked to see what the school had to say about him.

  Gavin had been touted as an expert in the archery club. There was a stunning picture of him on the school's website, wearing a muscle shirt and sweatpants, holding a bow with an arrow poised and ready on the taut string taking aim at the photographer.

  Val wondered who had taken that photograph of him. His intense, focused expression said both that he wouldn't think twice about shooting whomever lay behind the lens, and that he wasn't going to miss if he did.

  Apparently, he'd also dabbled on the men's swim team as a freshman, but had quit before the season was through, so while his name was listed among those assembled, he, himself, wasn't. She felt her face grow hot as she realized that she was a little disappointed.

  He didn't seem crazy, though. Weird, yes. Interesting, yes. Dangerous, definitely.

  Crazy, no.

  She clicked back to the archery photo. I wonder if he's still that buff. Beneath the clinging gray fabric, she thought she could make out the slight contour of his abs. He had nice shoulders, too, muscular — from swimming, she supposed — and his arms looked strong. As if he'd be able to pick up a girl her size without much difficulty ….

  “Val, ten minute warning!”

  She nearly fell over herself changing the screen back to Facebook. “I'm coming, Mom! Jeez.”

  With a last look at her empty message box, she closed her laptop and sighed. Look at her, acting like a drooling idiot over someone she would, in all likelihood, never see again.

  (You'll figure it out.)

  Right?

  “Val, are you ready?”

  “Yes.”

  ▪▫▪▫▪▫▪

  Val's day at Derringer High School passed uneventfully.

  In Art, they were beginning to study the human form in preparation for the life drawing they would begin for the next few weeks. Giggles abounded when Ms. Wilcox informed them that despite the fact life drawing classes generally involved naked models, there would be no nudes.

  Val squirmed at the thought, relieved she would be spared such a gross indignity.

  James was sitting with his jock friends, and he was one of the people laughing the hardest. Val stared down at her blank piece of paper and wondered again why Lisa was so convinced that the two of them had anything in common. She was beginning to suspect Lisa knew no such thing, and the fact that James was cute was supposed to be enough.

  Ms. Wilcox eyed her students with fond disapproval. “Now that you've gotten that out of your system, I expect total silence while you sketch. Total,” she said, switching off the radio, “Silence.”

  The back of Val's neck prickled as the room was plunged into a hush broken only by the sound of scribbling pens and pencils, and whispered giggles. She had the same creepy feeling she'd gotten on the track field, and then again in the girls' locker room.

  Her fingers closed around her pencil as if it were a weapon. She tried to think about what she wanted to draw, but her thoughts were occluded by swirls of uneasiness mired in irritation. For some reason, she thought of those fierce-looking little kittens from Petville. They had been so beautiful, what with their detailed markings and large blue eyes. Maybe should draw them. And then her hand was moving almost before she'd even completed the thought, describing wispy tufts of baby-soft fur, velvet whiskers, liquid eyes.

  “Nice use of detail, Val,” Ms. Wilcox said, in passing.

  Val smiled in response, using the tip of her finger to smudge and blend the stripes. “I love animals,” she said, more to herself than her teacher.

  It was the one bright spot in her day.

  After Art was English, which Val hated. Mrs. Vasquez brandished works of literature the way other people, in crueler times, surely must have wielded pitchforks and spears. Before the more standard Romeo and Juliet, Val's teacher had gotten them started on Titus Andronicus, which was absolutely awful. Murder and rape and torture — but everyone else in the class was pretty enthusiastic about it, which meant Val had to pretend to like it, too, so they wouldn't make fun of her the way they did the one Mormon girl in the class.

  Emily Abernathy, the Mormon, was on a customized lesson plan since her religion precluded many of the books and movies Mrs. Vasquez had them watch in class, including the 1960s movie with the infamous flash of boob. Many of the boys were looking forward to that movie. James included, probably, thought Val, leaning on the heel of her hand with annoyance.

  “We'll also be watching the movie, Titus,” Mrs. Vasquez was saying, “So I'll be passing out permission slips. If you don't turn them in by the end of the week, you can't watch the movie.”

  Oh, really? Val immediately resolved to lose hers. These things happened, after all, and an imposed study session in the library under the hawkish eyes of crabby old Ms. Banner was far more appealing than watching people get chopped up and baked into pies. Just the thought made Val want to throw up.

  Emily looked equally discomfited. She caught Val's look of horror and gave her a shy, strained smile of camaraderie.

  Mrs. Vasquez looked at Val, then at Emily, and said, “If you don't watch the movie” — how could she possibly know what I was thinking? “ — I'll be expecting a five-page analysis of your thoughts on Titus Andronicus, along with detailed examples and quotes from the play.”

  Fudge, thought Val, and from Emily's face, it was clear she was thinking the same thing. I hate English.

  She ended the day with Health, which wasn't much better. Some poor college girl had been recruited to tell her story about alcohol poisoning after a party gone wrong. It sounds like something out of one of those Lifetime movies Mrs. Jeffries watches, Val thought, as the girl talked about waking up with her head in a toilet, and how she had panicked when she started puking blood. Val wanted to puke herself.

  The bell cut the girl off just as she started talking about her enlarged pancreas and unpleasant emergency visit to the hospital. Thank God, thought Val. Saved by the bell.

  “How was school?” Mrs. Kimble asked.

  Val yanked open the door and plunked herself into the passenger seat. “Gross.”

  “Gross?”

  “People vomiting blood and getting chopped up.”

  “That must have been an interesting lesson.”

  “It wasn't.”

  “Well, I have some errands to run. Do you want to come with me, or shall I drop you off at home?”

  Val started to say “home” and paused. “Could I go to Petville?”

  “Val, I've told you — ”

  “Not to buy. It's just — they have these baby kittens. They're the cutest things ever, Mom, I've never seen anything like them before. They're a new breed — I'm drawing them for Art.”

  “This is a school thing?”

  Val nodded. That cinched it.

  “Oh, all right. How long do you think you'll be?”

  “I have my phone,” said Val. “You can call me when it's time to pick me up. And then I'll come out to the parking lot and wait.”

  “You certainly have this planned out.”

  Val colored. “Mom! God, not everything's a conspiracy, you know.”

  “It is when you're blushing,” her mother said, which only caused the flush to deepen. “What on earth are you planning?”

  “My art project,�
� Val mumbled, swinging herself out of the car door when her mother pulled into the shopping center. “I'll call you when I'm done.”

  Stupid, nosy mothers.

  The automatic doors slid open with a whir as she walked towards the store. Val's chest tightened, and she tightened her grip on the strap of her backpack.

  The strange boy was glaringly absent — not that she was looking. In his place was a heavyset man in a blue apron her eyed her with undisguised suspicion, staring at the sketchpad under her arm. Val looked around nervously before approaching the man and explaining what she wanted.

  “I just want to draw them,” she said, shrinking under his gaze, “I won't touch or bother them or anything like that. It's for, um, school.”

  The man grunted something like reluctant quiescence before going off to harangue some middle schoolers Val recognized from last year, when she was in eighth grade, for pestering the beta fish and laughing as they attacked the glass.

  Val shook her head, hoping she hadn't been that annoying at twelve, and sat cross-legged in front of the kitten pen, wincing a little at the grimy dustiness of the floor. A few of the kittens crawled over to the wall to stare at her and mew. Val was flooded with the urge to coo over them, but the image of the stern-faced store manager dampened that impulse.

  Slowly, conscious of the manager's menacing presence, Val began to sketch. At first she used grids to try and map the proportions of the kittens' faces. She realized immediately that she had made their foreheads much too small and their cheeks much too fat in her preliminary sketch.

  As she sat erasing, she was aware of a shadow crossing her pad. She looked up, startled, to see the fat man hovering over her. “Are you an artist?”

  “I guess,” said Val, stiffening a little as she looked back at her paper.

  “Hmm.” The man grunted again. “That's quite good.”

  “Thank you.” She could feel her cheeks getting warm. She wished he would go away.

  “There's a boy works here — he's an artist, too.”

  At that, Val looked up. “Really? How old is he?”

  “Old enough to know better, young enough to worry about.”

  Now what on earth did that mean? Val wanted to ask him more, but the man had grown tired of the subject and walked off towards the rows of bird cages, shaking his head and muttering as he resumed tailing the rowdy group of preteens through the store.